


Wine Fraud and Other Worthy Pursuits

by ImprobableDreams900



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure, Auctions, Gen, Human AU, Wine, Wine auction accuracy (???), obligatory drunk scene, wine fraud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 10:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17364338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900
Summary: When Aziraphale, rare book dealer and part-time wine collector, encounters a bottle of 1844 Château Lafite-Rothschild he suspects isn't all that it claims, he becomes determined to track down the truth.Unfortunately, the finger of suspicion seems to point at fellow wine collector Anthony J. Crowley, whom Aziraphale is already well on his way to befriending.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mirawonderfulstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/gifts).



> Written for Mirawonderfulstar for the 2018 GOHE and [cross-posted there](https://go-exchange.dreamwidth.org/226420.html).
> 
> I did quite a bit of research for this, so I hope you enjoy learning about wine, wine auctions, and international currency conversion rates from thirty years ago. ;)
> 
> As always, thanks to my betas, doctortreklock and spinner12.

_Outside Tours, France, 1978_

 

There were three types of people, in Aziraphale’s opinion, who did not deserve to own books: people who didn’t actually like books, but were accumulating them for some other reason; people who were too stupid or bigoted to properly appreciate the knowledge that books contained; and people with small children or other rowdy indoor animals. The late Monsieur Paget had been the first sort of person, and it showed.

Aziraphale swept his gaze across the shelves of beautiful, leather-bound books in the elegantly decorated study. Not a single one looked like it had been read in several decades, dust still clinging snugly to the edges of the spines and the tops of the pages. This was because Monsieur Paget hadn’t collected books because he liked reading—he’d collected them because he liked money, and that’s what books were to him. _Investments_.

It sickened Aziraphale in a way he couldn’t properly express. It was like clipping a bird’s wings or tossing out perfectly good cream cakes. Monsieur Paget might as well have chained his books to the shelves, for all the love and care they were being given. Aziraphale could practically hear the books crying out to him, begging for deliverance from this dismal, elitist hell to somewhere they would be read.

Luckily for them, Aziraphale was here for just that.

Monsieur Paget had departed this world a little over a month ago, leaving a sizeable estate to his daughter Béatrice. A bit unsurprisingly, Béatrice—who had left France some time ago to seek her fortune in New York City—had inherited her ambivalence towards the finer things in life from her father, and had decided to sell his entire estate at the first available opportunity.

Aziraphale had heard of the upcoming estate auction from his extensive network of scholarly contacts, and had left London at once. Though there were plenty of book auctions every year, an estate auction was an opportunity to get his hands on something particularly rare and unusual at a potentially fantastic price. For Aziraphale, this particular auction was especially enticing because Monsieur Paget had been an avid collector of another of Aziraphale’s favourite things: wine.

Though Aziraphale was first and foremost a rare book dealer, he was also a part-time wine collector, and he liked to think that he had a discerning eye for the finer vintages. This sale, therefore, was the perfect opportunity to secure a few new gems for both of his collections.

Aziraphale tore his gaze from the shelves of dusty books and glanced towards the elaborate wooden clock resting on a nearby mantelpiece. Time had flown by quickly as he’d poked through Monsieur Paget’s books, and he saw with surprise that it was already a few minutes past ten, when the wine auction had been slated to begin.

He turned his gaze briefly back to the books, gave the spines of the nearby set of Vasari’s _Le Vite_ a farewell pat, and forced himself to turn away. There were a few other collectors perusing the books as well, and Aziraphale slipped past them on his way out of the study and into the hall.

He was quite looking forward to the book auction later that afternoon—there were several volumes he was very eager to bid on—but, in the meantime, he was happy to distract himself with fine wine. Monsieur Paget had had an excellent eye for rare books, even if he didn’t appreciate anything about them other than their dollar value, and Aziraphale was hoping he’d had as good of an eye for wine.

Aziraphale squeezed around two gentlemen inspecting a marble-topped, rococo side table in the corridor and made his way towards the formal dining hall, which, as the largest room in the house, had been repurposed for the site of the auction.

Prospective buyers were milling around outside the open double doors leading to the dining hall, talking amongst themselves and paging through various catalogues. The auctioneer’s voice floated through the doorway, adding a constant string of muffled numbers to the low chatter of conversation. Aziraphale wove his way through the crowd and slipped past the beautifully carved doors and into the dining hall.

“—next is Lot 5, a case of 1967 Château Ausone. The commission starts us at 12,000 francs.”

Aziraphale moved along the back wall and headed up one of the side aisles as the bidding on Lot 5 commenced.

“13,000. 14,000. 15,000 francs. Back to you, Madame.”

Aziraphale located a vacant chair and sank onto it, tugging the wine catalogue and his bidding paddle out of his pocket.

“Lot 5 sold for 15,000 francs to bidder number 82,” the auctioneer announced, rapping his hammer on the podium. “Lot 6, a mixed lot, starts at 5,000 francs.”

Aziraphale flipped through the catalogue until he had found the first of the lots he’d marked, a case of Château Margaux in the original wooden crate. He settled in to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, the case of Margaux having been secured by Aziraphale with only one absentee bidder providing any competition, the auctioneer announced the first star lot of the wine portion of the auction.

“Next is Lot 37, a single bottle of 1844 Château Lafite-Rothschild. The commission starts at 60,000 francs.”

The crowd stirred noticeably, but despite the high price several numbered paddles shot into the air, Aziraphale’s among them.

“62,500. 65,000.” The auctioneer’s hand motioned towards Aziraphale. “67,500.” He looked at someone else in the crowd. “70,000.”

The auctioneer glanced back at Aziraphale, who forcibly reminded himself to save some money for the books later. He shook his head.

The auctioneer’s attention moved elsewhere. “72,500. Sir? 75,000.”

Heads turned to try to find the remaining bidders, and Aziraphale spotted one of them several rows away, a dark-haired man in a black suit and sunglasses.

The auctioneer’s head swung to the other side of the room as the other remaining bidder upped the price. “77,500.” He looked back at the man in the sunglasses, who immediately raised his paddle. “80,000.”

Aziraphale, the auctioneer, and half of the audience turned towards the other bidder, who was out of Aziraphale’s line of sight.

“Sir?” the auctioneer prompted. Then, after a moment: “85,000.”

The crowd’s attention swung like a pendulum back to the man in the sunglasses, who again raised his paddle without a moment’s hesitation.

“90,000.”

Heads turned back to the other bidder. After a long moment of silence, the auctioneer returned his attention to the man in the sunglasses. When no further competition appeared, he rapped his hammer smartly against the podium. _“Sold_ to number 66 for 90,000 francs. That’s Lot 37.”

An impressed ripple passed through the crowd, but already the auction was moving on. “Lot 38, a group lot of 1959 French reds, starting at 10,000 francs.”

By the time the last lot was sold, a little over an hour later, Aziraphale was somewhat poorer but happy with his purchases, which included a rather nice pair of 1945 Louis Latours and a half-case of Chambolle-Musigny pinot noir that he intended on drinking at the first opportunity. A bit disappointingly, all of the rare bottles had sold outside of his price range, and he couldn’t help but notice that more than one had gone to buyer 66.

With the wine portion of the auction concluded, Aziraphale headed briefly to the loo and then back towards the dining hall to double check the time of the book auction. As he strode past the parlour, he happened to glance into the small, ornately decorated room. The administrators of the estate auction had set up a few collapsible tables there, and he spotted the man in the sunglasses standing beside one, flipping idly through a catalogue. Aziraphale hesitated for a moment and then redirected his feet towards him.

He cleared his throat slightly as he approached, the man looking up from the catalogue as Aziraphale neared. “Excusez-moi,” Aziraphale said politely, his French flawless. “Félicitations pour vos achats de vin.”

The man just stared at him for moment—or perhaps he blinked; it was hard to tell with his dark sunglasses. “Er,” he said. “I—uh—pardon. Je…je parle seulement…uh…un peu—”

“Is English better?” Aziraphale asked, gently breaking off the other man’s halting words.

“Oh, loads,” the man said with an upper-class British accent, looking relieved. “Sorry; I never was any good with languages. Just don’t have the tongue for it, I suppose.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Aziraphale assured him smoothly, holding out his hand. “I was just saying that you won some fine wines today. I’m Aziraphale.”

“Oh, ah, Anthony Crowley. You can call me Crowley,” the man said, shaking Aziraphale’s hand. “Aziraphale, you said?”

“My family is very religious,” Aziraphale said by way of explanation. “Are you new to wine collecting? I don’t remember having seen you before.”

“I’ve dabbled for a while, but I’m just now really getting into it,” Crowley replied, one hand absentmindedly rolling up his copy of the catalogue. “Where are you from? I don’t know many collectors yet.”

“London,” Aziraphale supplied. He opened his mouth to say more, but at that moment one of the estate auction’s attendants approached the table.

“Monsieur Crowley?”

Crowley turned at the sound of his name and visibly brightened as he saw the man carefully slide a wooden case onto the table. Behind him, another attendant carried a second case.

“Oh, excellent!”

“Would you like us to take them directly to your automobile, Monsieur?”

“Just a moment,” Crowley said, moving closer to the table and putting a hand on the edge of the nearest crate. “Let me take a look at them first.”

“Of course, Monsieur,” the attendant said, and motioned to his fellow to add the second case to the table as well.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Crowley assured them, eagerly lifting the wooden lid off the first case and peering inside. Aziraphale drifted closer.

Crowley drew forth the first of the carefully packed bottles, the beautiful, rich red of the wine visible even through the tinted glass.

When Aziraphale saw the label, he drew a sharp intake of breath. “Is that the ’44 Lafite…?”

“It is indeed,” Crowley said, his voice warm as he carefully tilted the bottle back, examining his purchase with evident delight.

“May I…?” Aziraphale asked hopefully.

“Sure,” Crowley said, and very carefully handed him the bottle. “Don’t drop it.”

Aziraphale took the bottle with reverence, feeling the chill of the cellar still clinging to its glass as his eyes tracked expertly over the label, which featured a finely printed vignette of the château nestled into gently sloping hills. He ran his thumb carefully over the edge of the label, feeling the soft surface of the paper. “It is a beautiful bottle.”

“That it is,” Crowley agreed, happily pulling out the next bottle and briefly examining it.

After another moment of admiring the Lafite, Aziraphale held it back out to Crowley, who took it and carefully returned it to the case.

“Is the packaging to your satisfaction, Monsieur?” the attendant asked as Crowley moved on to the second crate.

“Oh, yes, yes, this is fine,” Crowley said, pulling another bottle halfway out to check the label and then settling it snugly back into the crate. “My car runs very smoothly, and I have blankets to wrap the cases in, so there shouldn’t be any problems in transit.”

“Wonderful, Monsieur.”

Crowley briefly pulled one more bottle out and then stepped back, allowing the attendant to re-secure the lid. He turned to Aziraphale. “Sorry to excuse myself so soon, but I’m afraid I really do need to get going. It was a pleasure meeting you.” He shook Aziraphale’s hand again.

“Likewise,” Aziraphale said, and watched a bit wistfully as the attendants picked up the crates of wine and made their way around the table.

Crowley led the way towards the exit, glancing over his shoulder every few moments to make sure the attendants were following him.

As they left, Aziraphale consoled himself with the knowledge that the book auction was still to come, and that there was plenty of time left to win a rare prize of his own.

 

 

 

_Beverly Hills, California, 1983_

 

It was five years before Aziraphale saw another bottle of 1844 Château Lafite-Rothschild up for auction. He did a double take when he saw the catalogue entry, and was even more surprised when he saw that the same auction was also selling a 1921 Domaine des Lambrays—another wine he hadn’t seen since Monsieur Paget’s estate auction.

On a hunch, Aziraphale had rifled through his bookshop for the wine catalogue from the estate auction. He’d marked the final price and winner of many of the notable wines, and a few minutes of crosschecking had revealed, quite puzzlingly, that multiple bottles from the same vintages as those that had been won by bidder 66 were to be sold at the annual Heublein auction in Beverly Hills.

Aziraphale would have brushed it off as a coincidence—there were surely at least a hundred different sellers contributing to this auction, so the bottles could have conceivably come from just about anyone—except that the seller line was the same for each of them: _Property of a London Collector_. He didn’t know where exactly Crowley was from, but his accent had been unmistakably British, and a London address certainly didn’t rule him out as the source.

Regardless of who the source was, though, Aziraphale was still very interested in attending and bidding on the bottles himself. He’d been doing a brisk trade in rare books lately, and was happy to say that his collecting budget had increased. Perhaps he could be the lucky winner of the ’44 Lafite this time around.

But Aziraphale had always been good at connecting dots, and his suspicions were only solidified when, as he milled around the already-packed auction room in the posh Beverly Hills hotel, he spotted Crowley himself. He was standing on his own near the side of the room, sunglasses again perched on his nose and a glass goblet in his hand.

Aziraphale started weaving his way through the crowd towards him, intent on determining if his hunch was correct, but was accosted halfway there by a hand on his arm.

“Aziraphale, is that you?” cried a familiar voice. “It’s good to see you again!”

Aziraphale allowed himself to be waylaid, turning and coming face-to-face with Maximilian Weiss, a rather portly German book collector whom Aziraphale hadn’t seen for at least a decade.

“Max!” he said in surprise, taking a moment to give his friend a once-over, surprised to see him again after all these years. “Oh, I should have expected to see you here!” Max had been Aziraphale’s impetus for getting involved in the wine trade in the first place, having entirely switched his own collection from books to wine some years ago, shortly after he’d moved to America.

“Are you still rattling around in London, then?” Max asked good-naturedly, his hand still on Aziraphale’s arm. “How’re the books?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Still in London, yes. And the books are going great. I must say, it really is great to see you. How have you been?”

“Just fantastic! America really is something.” Max glanced briefly over his shoulder. “Oh, and here, there’s someone you just _must_ meet…” He started drawing Aziraphale through the crowd by the arm.

Aziraphale glanced back towards Crowley, still standing alone at the side of the room, and allowed Max to lead him away. Aziraphale turned his head back around and spotted the knot of people Max was leading him towards, a small group all clamouring to get closer to the tall, mildly handsome young man in their midst.

“Michael!” Max called as he pushed his way through the crowd, dragging Aziraphale after him.

The young man turned towards them as Max neared, and Aziraphale saw with distaste that he was wearing a white blazer, an obnoxious paisley button-up, and large, bejewelled sunglasses that had been pushed up into his hair. He gave Aziraphale an easy smile before his gaze switched to Max.

“Maxy, how’s it hanging?”

“I’d like you to meet my friend Aziraphale; he’s a rare book collector from London,” Max said, pulling Aziraphale a little further forward.

“Hey,” the man said, and shook Aziraphale’s hand.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Aziraphale said, though he wasn’t sure if it was.

“Aziraphale, this is Michael Fowler, one of America’s rising stars in the wine world!” Max beamed.

“Pfft,” Fowler said, as though brushing off the praise, but he didn’t particularly sound like he meant it. “Hey, Maxy, you’re coming to the party later, right? And bringing the cognac? It’s gonna be hopping.”

“Oh, of course! There’s some Frapin I got just for you.”

“Dope.” Fowler’s eyes slid back to Aziraphale. “You can bring your friend too, if you like.”

“Oh, I’m sure I—” Aziraphale began, but Fowler had already turned away, the crowd beginning to close around him again.

“You simply _must_ come,” Max said as he tugged Aziraphale a bit further away from the crush of people around Fowler. “Michael throws the _best_ parties in all of L.A., and he’s a must-know for the wine business.”

“I—er,” Aziraphale said, distracted by the arrival of the auctioneer at the front of the room. He glanced towards the side of the room, where he’d spotted Crowley earlier, but he couldn’t see him through the milling crowd anymore. “Look, Max, can we talk later? There’s someone I want to—”

The auctioneer rapped his hammer on the podium. “Welcome, everyone, to the fifteenth annual Heublein wine auction.”

“It’s starting!” Max said unnecessarily. “Come, sit by me.” Before Aziraphale could protest, Max had grabbed his arm again and was leading him into the sea of chairs.

The auction was soon off to a brisk start, case after case of Bordeaux selling with prodigious speed. The hall was crowded, and rightly so—the catalogue held over seventeen thousand bottles of wine.

Aziraphale pushed the matter of Crowley and his bottles from his mind as the morning progressed, spending his time instead chatting idly with Max and making impressed noises as individual bottles fetched thousands of dollars. Max was a constant source of local gossip, pointing out the Hollywood starlets, Texas millionaires, and reporters in the audience. The American wine scene, Aziraphale was beginning to suspect, was quite a bit different than the European one.

Four hours in, the Lafite came up.

“Lot 912,” the auctioneer announced. “An 1844 Château Lafite-Rothschild.” As it had at Monsieur Paget’s estate, the name of the wine elicited a murmur of excitement from the crowd.

“The commission starts the bidding at $17,000.”

Paddles shot up.

“$18,000. $19,000. $20,000 over here.”

Aziraphale stared at the auctioneer in disbelief; though the exchange rate had been fluctuating quite a lot recently, the 90,000 francs the Lafite had fetched at the estate auction was only equivalent to about $20,000 in US dollars, and the bidding was just getting started.

Beside Aziraphale, Max raised his paddle.

The auctioneer nodded in their direction. “$22,500.” His eyes raked over the crowd. He raised his hammer and then paused. “$25,000 to the gentleman in the back.”

The auctioneer’s gaze returned to Max, whose expression grew a little pained. Aziraphale stared at him as he drew a deep breath and nodded, mostly to himself. He raised his paddle again.

“$27,500,” the auctioneer said, sounding a little impressed. He looked to the back of the room.

After a long moment, he rapped his hammer against the podium. “Sold for $27,500 to bidder number 54. That’s Lot 912, the 1844 Lafite.”

There was an impressed murmur from the crowd and a few people applauded. Aziraphale hardly blamed them; the most expensive wine ever sold, after all, had fetched $31,000—only a few thousand more.

“ _Max_ ,” Aziraphale said softly.

“I know,” Max said, looking a little shell-shocked himself.

It took a while for the buzz of the sale to die out, though it returned in the afternoon when two bottles of 1806 Lafite fetched an astounding $45,000.

“Oh God, Mayhue got them,” Max groaned from beside Aziraphale as the auctioneer rapped his hammer on the podium.

“Who’s Mayhue?” Aziraphale asked, leaning back and forth to try to catch a glimpse of the winning bidder.

“A liquor dealer,” Max said with a grimace. “From _Florida_. They say he only drinks iced tea.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “What? What does he want wine for, then?”

“He says he likes to ‘possess’ it,” Max grumbled. “He was the big spender last year, too.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, and turned his attention back to the auctioneer.

The rest of the afternoon proceeded without incident, the auction finally wrapping up with a number of California wines going higher than expected.

“Well, do you want to grab some dinner?” Max asked as the crowd began to funnel towards the checkout desk near the exit. “There’ll be some food at the party, but we’ll need something before then.”

“Oh…sure,” Aziraphale said, busy scanning the room for Crowley. “There’s someone I want to talk to first—how about we meet up again in a few minutes? There’s a queue for the checkout anyway. I can meet you there.”

“All right,” Max agreed, shuffling through some handwritten notes he’d taken during the auction. “Don’t go too far!”

Aziraphale nodded distractedly and started off into the crowd, making a loose circuit of the room and hoping to spot Crowley. He wasn’t standing where Aziraphale had seen him earlier, and he didn’t appear to be in the queue for the checkout either. Aziraphale wondered, a tad disappointedly, if he had already left.

Aziraphale wandered out of the main room and into the hall, scanning the smattering of people loitering there. He was about to give it up for a lost cause when he spotted Crowley standing not far away, draining the last of his complimentary glass of ice water.

He made a beeline for him.

“Crowley, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale asked as he approached.

Crowley looked over at him in surprise as he lowered his glass.

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale introduced himself again, holding out his hand. “We met at Monsieur Paget’s estate auction a few years ago.”

“Oh…yeah,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could see him blink even through the dark lenses of his sunglasses as he reached out to shake Aziraphale’s hand. “I remember you. London, right?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Indeed. What did you think of today’s auction? The ’44 Lafite sold _very_ well.”

Crowley smiled, and he actually looked a little relieved. “Yes, it did.”

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Aziraphale said, trying to hide his interest, “but the catalogue said it was from a London collector, and I was wondering…?” He let the question trail off.

The smile slid straight off of Crowley’s face.

“I—I mean,” Aziraphale said, suddenly realising how prying of a question that had been, “I was just curious, is all—”

“It’s all right,” Crowley said, though his tone wasn’t entirely convincing.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—that was terribly rude of me—” Aziraphale stammered, wishing he’d never even begun the conversation. He’d been so eager to see if his hunch was correct that he hadn’t even thought about _why_ Crowley might be selling the bottles he had acquired so recently.

“It’s fine,” Crowley said. “I was the seller. I…” He looked down at his empty water glass. “I’ve had some…unexpected expenses lately, to be honest, and I needed the cash. I was lucky I was able to get into the sale in time. I had to liquidate almost my entire cellar.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, wondering what he’d been expecting and feeling awful about this entire situation. “I’m sorry.” He struggled to think of some way to salvage the conversation. “You’ve made quite the profit, though.”

Crowley’s mouth thinned into a tight smile. “Yes. Though I am sad I had to part with them at all.”

“Oh, certainly!” Aziraphale said, continuing to mentally curse his curiosity.

There was a long, awkward moment of silence, and then Crowley cleared his throat. “Well, I’d better get going.”

“Do you—do you want to go to a party?” Aziraphale blurted out.

Crowley just stared at him for a moment. “Pardon?”

“One of the Americans—Fowler, I think it was—is having a party tonight. I—honestly I don’t know what it’s going to be like, but I think there are going to be a dreadful lot of people.”

“I—er—” Crowley said, sounding very taken aback.

“You don’t have to,” Aziraphale backtracked quickly. “I just thought—well—I don’t know what I thought—”

What Aziraphale had actually been thinking was that Crowley had looked awfully lonely both times Aziraphale had seen him, and also that he desperately didn’t want to go to this party, and if he convinced Crowley to go with him then he at least wouldn’t have to talk to any Americans. Max, he was certain, would abandon him after the first ten minutes, as had historically been the case at social functions.

“Okay,” Crowley said.

“I just—okay?” Aziraphale stumbled on, taking a moment to process Crowley’s response.

“Okay,” Crowley repeated. “I’ll go. Where is it?”

“I—er,” Aziraphale said, realising a bit belatedly that he didn’t know himself. “I’m actually not sure; my friend Max was going to take me there. It’s later tonight—but in the meantime, we were going to go to dinner, and you could come with us if you like?”

Crowley looked oddly heartened by the offer, but he shook his head. “I should head back to my hotel first. Can I meet up with you later?”

“Of course!” Aziraphale said quickly, relieved that things were turning out okay after all. “Here, let me get Fowler’s address for you, and then you can meet us there if you like.”

“Sure.”

Aziraphale headed off to find Max, located him in the checkout queue, retrieved the address from him, and returned to find Crowley right where he’d left him, now sans the empty water glass and seeming somehow even more alone than usual, standing there all by himself while the other collectors moved past him in pairs or small groups.

“Here,” Aziraphale said as he reached him, handing him the slip of paper he’d written Fowler’s Los Angeles address on. “Max says the party will start around nine.”

“Cool,” Crowley said, looking down at the address for a moment and then slipping the piece of paper into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry about prying earlier,” Aziraphale said awkwardly. “I was honestly just curious. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s all right,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale tried to tell if he was being sincere or not, but it was nearly impossible, his gaze unable to penetrate the dark lenses of Crowley’s sunglasses. They were so impersonal, those sunglasses, screening off Crowley’s eyes entirely and making him seem cold and almost detached.

Unable to make a decision, he settled for, “Well, I’m sorry all the same. And I hope to see you tonight.”

Crowley gave him a faint, almost tentative smile then, and, despite the dark lenses hiding his eyes, Aziraphale decided that that was as clear a message as any.

 

***

 

“My God,” Aziraphale said, a bit shell-shocked, as he watched Michael Fowler open a $400 bottle of Château Latour and proceed to guzzle at least a glass’s worth straight from the bottle. Around him, a crowd of undulating, half-clothed bodies cheered loudly enough to briefly drown out the blaring music. Flecks of neon-coloured light raced across every surface in the room, illuminating the sleek lines of the architecture and the chaos contained therein.

“Right on!” someone shouted as Fowler stopped drinking long enough to raise the bottle triumphantly, wine dribbling down his chin.

“More for everyone!” Fowler shouted drunkenly, and the crowd cheered again as the bottle of Château Latour vanished into the crowd. Somewhere, there was the sound of glass breaking, the noise almost lost amid the heavy beat of the music. The disco ball continued to turn, sending a fresh pattern of fragmented light splaying over everything.

As predicted, Max had vanished soon after he and Aziraphale had arrived. As serious of a book collector as he had been, Max’s sudden shift towards an interest in wine had accompanied a major midlife crisis. One of the reasons he and Aziraphale had fallen out of touch over the years was that Max had taken up with a rather _different_ sort of crowd than Aziraphale usually felt comfortable with, and it was clear that this was still the case.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley either, leaving him to stand alone in the corner and watch in despair as case after case of wonderful, lovingly aged wine was poured into the plastic cups of a crowd of Hollywood stars too drunk to know a Cabernet Sauvignon from a Zinfandel.

The party had devolved quicker than Aziraphale had thought possible. Within an hour, nearly everyone had been hammered, illicit drugs beginning to make the rounds as well as alcohol. In short, it was nothing like any party Aziraphale had ever attended before, and for good reason. If he were honest with himself, it even turned his stomach a little. He would have left long ago, except that he’d asked Crowley to come, and he didn’t want him to turn up and think that Aziraphale hadn’t planned on coming at all.

In the end, unable to watch another bottle of Château Latour being pressed into the hands of a half-dressed woman he was fairly certain was a prostitute, Aziraphale decided he’d had enough. He started making his way from the house, determined to at least loiter in the slightly less noisy gardens. He’d only made it through two rooms, though, before he walked straight into Crowley.

“Sorr—Aziraphale!” Crowley said, the relief in his voice plain, flecks of multi-coloured light reflecting off his dark lenses. “Oh, thank somebody.”

“You’re here!” Aziraphale said, similarly relieved.

“This—this party is—” Crowley’s voice was barely audible over the thrum of the bass of the music—if they could call this music.

“It’s not what I expected,” Aziraphale agreed, having to almost shout his words to be heard.

Crowley nodded, and then his head moved slightly to one side as he looked at something over Aziraphale’s shoulder. His expression grew horrified.

Unwilling to turn and see this fresh new disaster, Aziraphale motioned past Crowley, in the direction of the door. “I was just leaving!”

Crowley nodded numbly and allowed himself to be turned around. They headed for the exit together, making a detour around a large puddle of wine-coloured liquid that had been spilled on the tile floor.

It was much quieter outside, the sound of the music muted and the air a little cooler, their feet crunching on the gravel drive.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said once he could hear himself think again. “I didn’t realise it would be like this.”

“Me neither,” Crowley said, and he laughed a little, nervously. “I guess they do things differently in America, huh?”

“Something like that,” Aziraphale agreed.

There was a moment of silence filled only by the distant music, Crowley glancing back at the house while Aziraphale racked his mind for something to say.

After several long seconds, Crowley cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose there’s no sense in sticking around here, then.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed.

There was another silence, and this time Aziraphale struggled to think of some place they could go that would still be open. He had just opened his mouth to ask if there was anywhere Crowley wanted to go when Crowley spoke.

“I guess I should be getting back to the hotel, then,” he said, though he didn’t sound particularly enthused about it. “I have an early flight tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, hopes flagging. “Yes, I suppose.”

Yet another silence stretched between them, punctuated by the sound of cheers and something smashing from the direction of the house.

“It was nice seeing you again,” Crowley offered. “I appreciate the invitation to the party, even though it’s…not quite my speed.”

“Yeah,” Aziraphale agreed quickly. “I am sorry about that.”

“It’s all right,” Crowley said, and extended his hand.

“I’ll see you around, then,” Aziraphale said as he shook Crowley’s hand, and hoped that it was true.

“See ya,” Crowley said, beginning to walk away. “Ciao.”

Aziraphale looked after him as he strode down the faintly lit drive, wondering if he ought to go after him. But then Crowley reached the gate at the end of the drive, and the opportunity was gone.

 

***

 

The following afternoon, with several hours left before he had to leave for the airport, Aziraphale took a cab to Max’s Los Angeles house to make sure that he’d made it back from the party in one piece.

Max was home, and still slightly hungover, but he looked—somehow—like he didn’t regret anything.

“Fabulous party, didn’t you think?” Max asked as he let Aziraphale in.

“Uh-huh,” Aziraphale said noncommittally, looking around Max’s very nice parlour. “Sorry to drop in like this, but I didn’t have your telephone number, so I thought I’d just stop by before I headed to the airport.”

“That’s kind of you,” Max said, leading the way into the kitchen. “And you’re in for a treat; I’ve sent my assistant to pick up the Lafite from the warehouse, and she should be back any minute now! It’ll be a sight to see, I’m sure.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say that he’d actually already seen this exact bottle, but then decided that that wouldn’t help any. It would only make Max want to know how much it had sold for before, and then he would feel bad about over-spending.

“I bet,” he said instead.

“Come in, come in, there’s some cold bacon if you want it—American bacon, that is, not proper bacon.”

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale declined politely, wondering with some alarm what the Americans had done to bacon.

“You never did tell me how your shop is doing these days—how’s business?”

They chatted for a little while, Aziraphale keeping a careful eye on the clock so he would leave on time. He was just beginning to think about excusing himself when there came the sound of the front door of the house opening.

“Ah, that’ll be Tammy!” Max said, climbing to his feet from where he’d been settled onto an alarmingly plush sofa. “Tammy, darling, bring it in here.”

Aziraphale trailed after Max as he motioned to his assistant, a young woman wearing bright pink lipstick and an excessively large bow in her hair, to set the coveted Lafite on a nearby side table.

Tammy cast Aziraphale a somewhat curious look as she set the box on the table and began opening it. Max joined her, and before long he was pulling the bottle from its careful packaging.

“Ah, she’s a beauty,” Max said, tilting the bottle to better catch the light. “My pride and joy.”

“It’s very nice,” Aziraphale agreed.

“Here, take a closer look,” Max said eagerly, holding the bottle out to him. “What a wonderful colour, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement, taking the bottle from its owner as carefully as he had five years ago. The colour was indeed just as wonderfully rich as it had been then, but…

Aziraphale’s eyes were drawn inexplicably to the label and the crisply printed letterforms of the name of the winery, directly under the illustration of the château. He ran his thumb over the edge of the label, just as he had before, but something was…different.

Aziraphale was in the business of dealing rare books. Like wine, the more unusual titles could easily fetch several thousand dollars from the right buyer. But, unlike wine, the book trade was awash with forgeries. Forged signatures were the most common, but sometimes entire broadsheets, charters, and other single-page sheets were forged. Even when working with authentic documents, the date wasn’t always included and had to be estimated from such qualities as the texture and type of the paper, the consistency and colour of the ink, and the crispness and style of the letterforms.

Aziraphale was an expert at what he did. He knew everything there was to know about paper and ink and different types of printing presses, and this label was wrong.

Visually, it was perfect, but the texture of the paper was all wrong, the fibres rugged and oddly stiff.

Aziraphale cast his mind back to the first time he had held the Lafite, in Monsieur Paget’s parlour, and struggled to recall how closely he’d been paying attention at the time. Nothing had seemed amiss about the label then, had it?

It was several long moments before Aziraphale realised that Max was looking at him in confusion, probably because Aziraphale had been staring at the bottle’s label for several seconds.

“Ah, it’s very nice, yes,” Aziraphale said, quickly handing it back. His mind jumped to Crowley and rested there uncomfortably. The timid Crowley didn’t seem the type to try to pass off forgeries, but he had said he was having financial difficulties, hadn’t he?

Aziraphale frowned.

“Really, Aziraphale, I’d think you’d be delighted,” Max said, noticing his expression and seeming a little put out.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, shaking his thoughts away. “Just thinking of something else. It looks great, really.”

“Of course it does,” Max said, a smug tone colouring his words as he looked down at his prized Lafite. “It must be one of the rarest bottles in the world!”


	2. Chapter 2

_Bruges, Belgium, 1988_

 

Aziraphale didn’t have the opportunity to investigate his new hunch further until another five years had passed and he finally ran into Crowley again, this time at a rather modest auction at a baron’s manor in Bruges.

Aziraphale was only there because it had been conveniently located on his way home from Frankfurt, where he’d been attending the annual book fair, so he was a bit surprised to run into Crowley again after such a long span of years.

Crowley seemed equally surprised to see him, and then actually quite pleased, approaching Aziraphale first and giving his hand a hearty shake. He looked more confident than the last time Aziraphale had seen him, and when Aziraphale asked how he was, Crowley assured him that he was doing well and that his financial worries were behind him.

Aziraphale watched him carefully as he bought case after case of Château Latour and Pichon Lalande. There weren’t very many exceptional bottles at the sale, but Crowley did make off with a rather nice 1953 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti for 380,000 Belgian francs, or about $10,000 USD.

Aziraphale took meticulous notes and, while the auction was still in progress, stepped aside and convinced the baron’s steward to let him take a look in the cellars on the premise that he was considering buying a bottle that had been marked as having an unfavourable ullage, and he wanted to see it for himself to determine if he wanted to bid on it. While in the cellar, under the close supervision of one of the servants of the house, he found the bottle of Romanée-Conti that Crowley had bought mere minutes before.

He took a moment to admire it, praising the baron’s taste in fine wine while mentally taking stock of every detail of the dusty bottle and its label.

At the next handful of wine auctions he attended—Crowley absent from all of them—he took the opportunity to ply his contacts for information, asking after Crowley as discreetly as he could.

He didn’t learn much; in fact, no one seemed to know very much about Mr Anthony J. Crowley at all, even though he’d been in the wine business for at least a decade now. He was quiet; everyone agreed on that. He kept to himself, but was personable if spoken to. Always polite, always happy to discuss his purchases. No one had ever seen him without his sunglasses, even indoors. Some people thought he might be blind, or else that he had some sort of nervous tick, or perhaps that he just didn’t like to be talked to. If that was the case, the sunglasses did their job spectacularly, their dark lenses walling him off from the other collectors.

He lived in London, but no one knew anything more specific than that. He bought and sold actively—he would buy up a bottle in Milan and then resell it in Prague a year later. Sometimes he made a profit; sometimes he didn’t. But he was always buying and always selling.

The one potentially useful thing that Aziraphale actually learned about Crowley was that he liked plants. Evidently he had a greenhouse somewhere.

It was entirely possible that there was nothing more to him than that, perfectly plausible that he was just a wealthy introvert who stuck to his wine and plants. But the memory of the bottle of 1844 Château Lafite-Rothschild was stuck in Aziraphale’s head, and he was almost certain something was afoot.

But a hunch was only a hunch, and he still had to prove it.

 

 

 

_London, 1990_

 

Aziraphale’s chance came two years later, at a Sotheby’s wine auction that happened to be one of the largest in the world.

Crowley was in attendance, and Aziraphale made a point of seeking him out before the sale began.

“I was wondering if you’d be here,” Aziraphale greeted cheerfully as he shook Crowley’s hand. “All of London’s abuzz about it.”

“I don’t know about that,” Crowley countered, but there was a faint smile on his face.

“Are you buying or selling? The catalogue looks great.”

“Both,” Crowley said, pulling out his own copy of the catalogue and flipping through it. “Did you see the ’47 Cheval-Blanc? They’re estimating it’ll go for $20,000. And that’s the _low_ end of the estimate.”

“Well, I heard one sold last year for £13,000—what’s that? $22,000 US?—so it’s not that far off. And it’s a magnum, and those always go for more.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement and flipped further through the catalogue.

“Which ones are yours?” Aziraphale asked, and was impressed by how conversational he sounded.

“Oh, there’s a bunch,” Crowley said, continuing to flip through the glossy pages.

“Anything good?”

“Well, there _is_ one that apparently Sotheby’s thinks is worth something,” Crowley said, finding a dog-eared page in the catalogue and pointing out one of the lots to Aziraphale. “A lovely Romanée-Conti I got a few years ago. They’re going to be showing it.”

“Are they?” Aziraphale asked, struggling to hide the fact that his heart rate had just doubled.

The biggest obstacle he’d had so far in trying to verify the authenticity of the wine Crowley was reselling was that it was difficult to actually get his hands on the bottles. Some bottles of wine—especially the older vintages—didn’t take well to being constantly moved, and as such most wine sold by large auction houses was held in the auction house’s climate-controlled warehouse before and during the sale. After the auction, once payment had completed processing, the buyer had to arrange for transportation of their purchases from the warehouse. This meant that sometimes the buyer didn’t actually receive the wine for upwards of a month. More importantly, it meant that Aziraphale was no longer in the area of the sale by the time the wine was actually dispersed, and therefore had no opportunity to inspect the bottles to verify his hunch.

Sotheby’s, on the other hand, liked having a little something flashy to show the media and encourage buyers to bid higher. To this end, a number of the star lots were chosen every year for the honour of being displayed at the auction house during bidding. And now, after years of waiting, it seemed that Aziraphale had finally got lucky, because Sotheby’s had picked one of Crowley’s.

“I’ll be sure to keep my eye out for it,” Aziraphale promised, quickly memorising the lot number that Crowley was pointing out to him.

“I take it you’re just buying as usual?” Crowley asked.

“I wouldn’t be a collector otherwise,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Trust me, if I could do the same with my books, I would. Unfortunately, a body’s got to making a living somehow.”

Crowley made a noise of amusement. He looked to be in such good spirits that for a moment Aziraphale actually felt a pang of guilt for suspecting him of anything nefarious. He found himself hoping that there would be nothing amiss with the Romanée-Conti, and that he could just forget all about this potential forgery business.

“Oh, and did you see this lot of Petrus? What a great vintage.”

Aziraphale was itching to track down the Romanée-Conti as soon as possible—if he asked the auction staff nicely, they might let him take a look before the sale started—but he couldn’t think of any suitable excuse to leave, and Crowley seemed so happy to have someone to chat with about the catalogue. Not for the first time, Aziraphale wondered how many other wine collectors Crowley was on a first-name basis with.

It wasn’t long before the auction was set to begin, and Aziraphale resigned himself to taking a peek after everything was settled. Worried that Crowley would notice how anxious he was if they sat together, Aziraphale excused himself to the loo and, when he returned, made sure to pick a seat a suitable distance away, half-hidden behind a column. He saw Crowley scan the back of the room for him a couple of times from his own, far more visible seat, before finally giving up and turning his attention to the front. Aziraphale pushed down the guilty feeling in his chest, reminding himself that, once he’d verified the authenticity of the Romanée-Conti, he could be friends with Crowley without feeling like he was just trying to get close so he could gather information. They lived in the same city and had similar interests, after all; there was no reason they couldn’t be friendly. And Aziraphale could do with a friend who wasn’t constantly (if good-naturedly) trying to convince him to part with his books.

The auction went far too slowly for Aziraphale’s liking, the lot numbers growing steadily towards the one Crowley had pointed out to him. Aziraphale tried not to think about it too much, focussing instead on bidding on the cases he was interested in.

The Romanée-Conti came up just a few minutes before the lunch break. One of the auction house’s assistants brought the bottle out and placed it on the display table at the front of the room.

“Lot 682,” the auctioneer announced. “A fine bottle of 1953 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, excellent condition. The commission starts us at $8,000.”

Aziraphale raised his paddle and the auctioneer moved his hand to acknowledge Aziraphale’s bid. Then he pointed to someone behind Aziraphale. “$8,500. $9,000.”

The auctioneer moved his gaze back to Aziraphale, who raised his paddle again. “$9,500.”

Whoever was in the back didn’t bid again, but a paddle was raised near the front. “$10,000.”

Aziraphale bit the edge of his tongue and raised his paddle. “$11,000.”

A heartbeat later, the bidder at the front raised theirs again. “$12,000.”

The auctioneer looked back at Aziraphale, who hesitated and tried vainly to see through the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever he was bidding against. With luck, he would be able to inspect the bottle even if he didn’t buy it; if he wasn’t so lucky, losing the bid would mean letting his chance to verify the Romanée-Conti’s authenticity slip through his fingers. On the other hand, it was a lot of money.

He raised his paddle again.

“$13,000.”

The auctioneer’s head moved back to the front, and Aziraphale felt his palms go clammy as the silence stretched on.

Then there was another flash of white. “$14,000.”

When the auctioneer looked back at Aziraphale again, he quickly shook his head before he could think better of it.

“Lot 682 sold to bidder number 120 for $14,000 USD.”

It was very nearly noon, and Aziraphale kept his gaze on the bottle of Romanée-Conti still resting on the table at the front of the room as two more lots were sold.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is now noon, and we will break for a short recess,” the auctioneer announced. “We will reconvene in one hour with Lot 685. That’s 685.”

The crowd began to stir, bidders standing and stretching, and Aziraphale quickly vacated his seat and made for the closest aisle. He walked down it as quickly as he dared, eyes on the Romanée-Conti as one of the attendants moved forward to retrieve it.

“Pardon me,” Aziraphale said hastily as he reached the front, squeezing around a reporter fiddling with his camera. He held out a hand to stall the assistant’s movement.

The man hesitated, the bottle of Romanée-Conti held firmly in his white-gloved grasp.

“Sorry, I know this is strange, but could I just take a look at this?”

The assistant eyed him uncertainly, expression conflicted. He was very young, and Aziraphale guessed that his role at the auction was limited to fetching and carrying.

“This vintage is very important to me,” Aziraphale invented wildly. “My wife and I had a bottle at our wedding. I’ll just be a second; I just want to look at it.”

“Er,” the man said. He glanced past Aziraphale, towards the auctioneer, and then at the director, but both had been approached by other bidders and weren’t looking their way.

“I’ll just be a minute, I promise,” Aziraphale pressed, feeling his chance slipping away.

“…sure,” the man said at last, and carefully set the bottle back down.

“Thank you so much,” Aziraphale said, eyes already sweeping across the curve of the bottle and fixating on the label.

The attendant hovered nearby as Aziraphale’s eyes tracked expertly along the text of the label. His heart sunk as he picked out several positively minute differences: the slight lengthening of the crossbar of the “E”s here, the artificial roundness of the letterforms there. And the original bottle had had a faint printing error in the upper right-hand corner, hadn’t it?

Hopes plummeting, Aziraphale carefully reached out and ran his thumb over the label. And there it was: the faint stiffness and rugged tooth of pulp paper, marks of a papermaking process that had yet to be invented when the wine was supposedly bottled.

It was a forgery. It had to be.

Aziraphale would have staked his reputation on it, but unfortunately that wouldn’t mean much to the authorities. Since he had only his own experience with the original bottle to prove that the label hadn’t been like this all along, he’d need something more concrete, _real_ evidence that a court would find persuasive. Something more conclusive than the wrong paper texture.

 _But what is he even doing?_ Aziraphale thought in puzzlement, staring down at the Romanée-Conti. _Why is he bothering to forge the label, of all things? Why not just drink the wine and reuse the bottle by filling it with cheap wine? And he’s not forging cases of dozens of bottles—just the individual, star lots. Why on Earth would he do that?_

“Sir,” the attendant said, and Aziraphale quickly shook himself from his reverie.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, pulling his hand away from the damningly modern paper and taking a step back. “The memories—they’re very strong.”

“Sure,” the attendant said, already pulling the bottle back into his grasp. “Have a good day, sir.”

Aziraphale nodded to himself as the Romanée-Conti was swept out of the room. He turned and walked slowly to the side of the room and stood there for a long moment, thinking hard.

 _He’s duplicating individual bottles_ , he repeated to himself. _And nearly perfectly, too, so he has to be working from the original bottle. He must still have the original—maybe he even plans on selling it eventually, so he’ll make twice the profit, from both the original and the reproduction._

In the last ten years, Aziraphale hadn’t heard of another 1844 Château Lafite-Rothschild going up for auction, which meant that, unless Crowley had sold the original bottle privately, he probably still had it. Now _that_ —that would be truly damning evidence. The original bottle, placed beside the forgery that Max had bought in California. That would be the only scenario when the differences between the original and the fake would be clear enough for laypeople to understand. And if he found the original Lafite in Crowley’s possession, then the finger of blame would be clear enough.

 _Or maybe…_ a small voice in Aziraphale’s head said. _Maybe you should just let him get away with it. He can’t be making that much money off of it, especially if he’s only selling duplicates of existing bottles. And no one else has even noticed yet._

He thought of Max, and how happy he had been with his $27,500 purchase. Auction houses offered no guarantee for property that wasn’t what it claimed to be, which meant that he’d be out the full amount. Maybe he’d be happier if he continued to believe that his purchase was genuine.

On the other hand, Aziraphale liked to think of himself as an upholder of the law and the proper order of things. Exposing Crowley might make Max $27,500 poorer, but if it wasn’t him then someone else would bear the burden. The other problem was that Aziraphale didn’t know the quality of the presumably inauthentic wine _inside_ the bottle. Max wasn’t exactly a specialist taster, but a lot of wine collectors were, and eventually someone was bound to notice that the wine they had bought was not what it said on the bottle. The natural variance of quality even within the same vintage wouldn’t be enough to account for some differences. Crowley was bound to be outed eventually.

And, Aziraphale thought consolingly to himself, the longer this went on the more serious it would become. Perhaps if he turned Crowley over to the authorities now, he could spare him a much heavier sentence in the future. Maybe it would be for his own good.

But he was getting ahead of himself. The first thing he needed was evidence, _real_ evidence. Just to be sure. He had to be absolutely certain.

So when Crowley spotted him brooding by the side of the room and trotted up to him with an easy smile on his face, Aziraphale forced himself to smile in return.

“Fancy getting lunch together?” Crowley asked.

“Sure,” Aziraphale agreed, and followed Crowley towards the exit.

They went to a nearby sushi place, Aziraphale fretting the entire time about what he ought to do. Crowley really did seem so personable; it was hard to imagine him trying to swindle anyone out of anything.

 _Maybe it’s not him doing it,_ Aziraphale thought hopefully. _Maybe there’s someone else who’s making the forgeries, and somehow Crowley’s not in on it. Maybe he’s being duped as well._

The thought was alarmingly reassuring.

They returned to Sotheby’s in time for the afternoon session, and this time Aziraphale couldn’t think of a good excuse not to sit next to Crowley. He turned out to be quite good company, though, making the occasional intelligent comment about a lot or buyer and listening carefully to whatever Aziraphale had to say. He really did know quite a lot about wine, and Aziraphale wondered again why nobody really talked to him.

Presumably it was because of Crowley’s impersonal, somewhat intimidating sunglasses, but Aziraphale was actually beginning to grow quite used to them. The more he saw Crowley with his ever-present shades, the more he felt certain that he must need them for some sort of medical reason. He really did wear them everywhere, and he was cheerful and friendly enough that Aziraphale doubted he wore them to try to dissuade people from talking to him.

As they sat there, though, Aziraphale began to wish that he would take them off, just so that he could see Crowley’s eyes. Maybe they could tell him the truth about Crowley, and whether or not he was a criminal.

 _A criminal_. The word made Aziraphale’s stomach twist in unpleasant ways.

The second half of the auction passed without incident, both Crowley and Aziraphale buying several lots while Crowley’s remaining bottles sold reasonably well. By the time they reached the Australian wines, both of their interests had waned considerably, a sentiment echoed by the slowly dispersing crowd.

“I think I’m about done,” Crowley said, flipping through the remaining two dozen pages of the catalogue. “What about you? Interested in any of the Portuguese wines?”

“Not particularly,” Aziraphale said, making a show of stretching his shoulders to try to hide the nervous tremor of his hands.

“Me neither.”

There was a brief moment of silence, Aziraphale mentally grappling with what to do next. Finally, he came to a decision and dearly hoped it was one he wouldn’t regret. “Do you want to grab dinner? There’s a nice little pub just off Piccadilly St that I quite like.”

Crowley looked absolutely delighted to be asked, a wide smile breaking across his face. “I’d love to!”

They moved to the queue for the checkout desk next, Aziraphale taking care to add up the numbers he’d jotted down for his lots so that he could compare his sum to the official tally.

It wasn’t long before they’d arranged for their invoices and were on their way out into the tepid early evening air, the Mayfair street outside of Sotheby’s already bustling.

“Piccadilly, you said?” Crowley asked, leading the way south.

“Yes, it’s over by the Portland Gallery,” Aziraphale said. “Next to the Ritz. Which also has wonderful food, but it’s impossible to get a table without a reservation.”

“Impossible for you, maybe,” Crowley said with a grin.

Aziraphale glanced at him in surprise. “Sorry?”

“I know the maître d',” Crowley said easily. “He owes me. I can get us a table.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Really?”

Crowley’s grin widened. “Just watch.”

Crowley turned out to be as good as his word, and fifteen minutes later they were sitting at a corner table in the Ritz Restaurant and being handed menus by their waiter.

“Shall we get a bottle of wine?” Aziraphale suggested as their waiter moved to the next table, his eyes skimming the extensive wine list. “In honour of another fine auction?”

“Sure,” Crowley said cheerfully. “What do you fancy?”

“Hmm, the Mouton-Rothschild looks quite good,” Aziraphale suggested. “I hear ’61 was a good vintage. Or perhaps the Talbot?”

“The Mouton-Rothschild has a better finish,” Crowley commented. “Wonderful balance, especially between the spicy and sweet. Hints of…what was it again?...eucalyptus and lavender, I think.”

“We’ll give that a try, then,” Aziraphale said.

When their waiter returned, they ordered dinner and the bottle.

While they waited for him to return, Aziraphale drew a careful breath. “So I hear that you own a greenhouse? How’s that?”

“Rent one, actually,” Crowley corrected. “Over near Twickenham. It’s a wonderful place.”

“So is horticulture a…hobby of yours?” Aziraphale ventured, and was rewarded by a wonderful smile from Crowley.

“You could say that. More of a passion, really. A bit like wine.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it,” Aziraphale admitted. “Is it mostly, er, sort of shrubs, or flowers, trees…?”

Again, Crowley looked absolutely delighted that Aziraphale had asked.

“Well,” he said, “you see…”

Their food arrived not long into Crowley’s explanation of his specific area of horticultural interest. When Crowley seemed to notice that he was rambling and began to wrap up, Aziraphale urged him to continue.

Before long, he’d pushed Crowley off onto another tangent, this one about the exact sorts of conditions one needs to properly grow plants.

Aziraphale made a show of hanging on Crowley’s every word, and it wasn’t entirely forced; Crowley really was very interesting, and he had a way of explaining things that was both easy to follow and surprisingly nuanced.

Crowley seemed suitably flattered by all the attention, and when the wine arrived Aziraphale made sure that he topped off Crowley’s glass before his own.

The wine was excellent, and it had a particularly balanced finish, as Crowley had said. Aziraphale sipped his exceptionally slowly.

Crowley’s cheeks were slightly rosy by the time they finished the bottle and the waiter came over to see how they were doing.

“Perfectly all right,” Crowley told him breezily. “And you can put all of this on my tab. It’s Anthony Crowley.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale objected, but Crowley waved away his words. “I must protest,” Aziraphale said, turning his attention to the waiter. “Please, get us another bottle of wine—we’ll take the ’68 Talbot—and I’ll pay for that one.”

“No, no,” Crowley said, though there was no real weight to his protest. Aziraphale motioned to the waiter to do as he said, and a few moments later Aziraphale had returned to plying Crowley with wine—from the new bottle this time—and asking him about his favourite plants.

Fifteen minutes later, Crowley was hiccupping slightly from Aziraphale’s subtle encouragements that he drink more, and more quickly, a loose smile on his face as he told Aziraphale that he kept some of his particularly well-behaved plants at his home.

“It’sss so I can— _hic_ —can keep an eye on them, you know?” Crowley said, his voice slurring slightly. “And they are— _hic_ —the _lushest_ plants in London. I make sssure of that.”

“What, you go around checking other people’s plants?” Aziraphale teased, raising his wine glass to his lips but not actually drinking anything.

Crowley unconsciously mirrored him, but took a full gulp from his glass before he continued. “No, _ssssilly_ , I jussst make sure they know who’sss bosssss.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but in any case Crowley looked tipsy enough to cooperate with what Aziraphale was about to suggest next.

“You know, I would just _love_ to see your plants in person,” Aziraphale said persuasively. “To properly appreciate them. And you must live nearby, surely? How about we go back to your place and you show them to me.”

A lopsided smile crossed Crowley’s face. “What a fantassstic idea. I didn’t— _hic_ —realissse you liked plantsss so much—we could have been sssuch good friendsss all thisss time.”

“Ah, but we _are_ good friends,” Aziraphale said, stretching the truth a little.

Crowley fell silent, just looking at him, and for a heartbeat Aziraphale thought that he’d said something wrong, but then Crowley smiled again, this time a little strained. Then he sniffled and reached for his sunglasses, and Aziraphale realised with a mixture of embarrassment and horror that he’d made Crowley cry.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said in alarm, reaching tentatively across the table.

Crowley pushed his sunglasses up a little as he pressed at his sinuses, and, though his eyes were closed, Aziraphale got his first look at the area usually hidden behind Crowley’s dark lenses.

He still wasn’t ruling out something medical being the reason for the sunglasses, but…at least cosmetically, Crowley looked completely normal.

Then Crowley pulled his fingers away from his closed eyes, wiped briefly at a tear that had escaped his lids, and tugged his sunglasses back down into their regular position.

“Sss—sssorry,” Crowley slurred, looking down at the table. “It’s jussst—it’s been hard for me—”

“Hey, hey,” Aziraphale said hastily, spotting their waiter nearby and motioning for the check. “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s good. Let’s go look at those plants of yours, yeah?”

Crowley sniffed again and nodded.

“We’re friends,” Aziraphale said, feeling his guilt settle in a little further. “And that’s great. Everything’s great, okay? Now, how about you finish your wine before we get going. It would be a shame to waste it.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement and resumed sipping his wine as the waiter returned and Aziraphale hastily wrote him a check for the second bottle of wine.

Once he had gone and Crowley had finished his glass, Aziraphale made his way to his feet. Crowley did so as well, but he stumbled a little.

“Steady on,” Aziraphale said, taking him carefully by the arm and leading him down the richly decorated hallway towards the exit. “Now, where exactly do you live?”

“Ber _wesquer_ ,” Crowley mumbled, walking into Aziraphale a little.

“Sorry?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Berkeley Sssquare,” he enunciated. “Mmm, that was sssome tasssty wine, don’tcha think?”

“Berkeley Square, really?” Aziraphale echoed in surprise. He had been planning on flagging a taxi to take them to Crowley’s place, but Berkeley Square wasn’t more than a five-minute walk away.

“It’sss family property,” Crowley mumbled as he allowed Aziraphale to lead him out of the hotel and onto the street.

Aziraphale made a noise of understanding and started towards the centre of Mayfair, Crowley finding his legs as the fresh air acted as a moderate sobering agent.

They reached Berkeley Square in no time at all, Crowley perking up a little as he recognised the space. He pointed Aziraphale to the right terrace, which had a beautiful, black, classic Bentley sitting outside of it. As they approached, Aziraphale was surprised to see Crowley’s surname written in faded gold paint on the lintel above the door. A quick survey of the surrounding brickwork yielded no occupant list or row of buzzers wired to different flats. Did Crowley own the entire terrace?

“Key…” Crowley mumbled, reaching into one of his pockets and producing a small key ring. He set about trying to fit the key into the lock, and Aziraphale was about to offer to help when he finally succeeded, turning the key and pushing the door open.

Crowley led the way inside, flipping the light switch while Aziraphale drew the door closed behind them. Crowley started down the narrow hallway stretching in front of them, and Aziraphale followed, looking around at the handsome dark wallpaper and elegant brass light fixtures.

Crowley led the way into a sitting room and spent a few moments fumbling around in the dark before successfully locating the light switch. The lights burst into life a moment later, revealing a room that was a little at war with itself aesthetically. The same elegant, dark wallpaper that had been in the hallway extended here, but the room had been furnished with a sleek black sofa, a very large TV, and some frighteningly modern-looking fluorescent lights. A pair of tall, lush ferns framed each of the narrow windows facing the street.

“Welcome to my place,” Crowley said, taking a step to the side and gesturing at the room. “Make yoursssself at home.”

“It’s very nice,” Aziraphale commented, his gaze settling briefly on what looked like a reproduction of the _Mona Lisa_ and then sweeping along a handful of bookcases set into the far wall. They held a modest collection of books and vinyl, but most of their shelves were filled with row upon row of CDs.

“Here are sss—some plants,” Crowley said, motioning at the ferns. “There’s lots more upstairs. The violets are especially well-behaved.”

“They look lovely,” Aziraphale assured him, itching to dash off to find the cellar.

He was still trying to work out how to convince Crowley to leave him on his own when Crowley announced that he was going to take a brief trip to the loo.

“I’ll be just a minute. Please, have a seat.”

Aziraphale waited for several long moments after Crowley had left before backtracking out into the hallway and beginning to systematically check every door he could find, searching for the cellar that would likely hold the real Romanée-Conti and 1844 Lafite.

His hasty search turned up no such cellar, though. Aziraphale was familiar enough with this sort of terraced housing—originally built for the crust of London society—to know that there almost certainly was one, and it was statistically unlikely that anyone had bothered boarding it up.

Time was slipping quickly through his fingers, though, and when it became clear that he wasn’t going to discover anything else at the moment, he hastily retreated to the sitting room. Crowley was still absent, so Aziraphale began poking curiously around the room, automatically drawn to the collection of books. They covered quite a range of topics, everything from wine and plants to classic literature and even a book on early medieval theology.

Aziraphale glanced over the large collection of CDs next, and that was when he noticed a faint, vertical hairline crack in the edge of the bookcase, where one section of shelving abutted another. Aziraphale ran his thumb over the narrow gap, wondering idly if the wood had simply split, but the break was too regular for that. A closer inspection revealed that the hairline crack extended all the way up and down the height of the bookcase.

Aziraphale felt his breath pick up in excitement. He immediately began feeling around the shelves of books and CDs, searching for some sort of release mechanism for what was almost certainly a secret door. There were so many shelves, though, and he feared he wouldn’t be able to find the trigger in time.

Hoping to rule out some other options, Aziraphale dashed around the room and started tugging and prodding at other objects—the brass wall lamp there, the fireplace moulding there. Then he reached the _Mona Lisa_ and pulled hastily on the edge of the frame. To his immense surprise, the painting swung forward easily, pivoting on piano hinges and revealing a very small switch that had been built into the wall.

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder—Crowley still hadn’t returned from the loo—and flipped the switch.

There was an immensely satisfying, very faint _squee_ , and an entire section of the bookcase slid forward.

“Now _that_ is really something,” Aziraphale said to himself, very impressed and thinking that he ought to get something similar installed in his bookshop as soon as possible.

He swung the painting back into place and quickly crossed to the protruding bookcase. When he pulled on its edge, it swung forward easily at his touch, revealing a set of stairs leading downward into darkness.

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder again and quickly started down the steps. He found a light switch almost immediately, and a line of fluorescent bulbs flickered into life above him, tacked rather unprofessionally to the sloping plaster ceiling.

He headed down the steps, and it wasn’t long before he reached the cellar proper, a small brick room holding rows of sturdy wooden shelving filled with bottle after bottle of red wine.

Aziraphale took a few tentative steps into the space, his eyes falling on a state-of-the-art thermostat and humidity regulator sitting not far away. A card table was set up near the back of the room, a large brass lamp resting on its surface.

Aziraphale moved towards it, struggling to make out the collection of objects spread across the table’s surface through the half-light. He came to a stop a metre away, the last faint shred of hope he’d had left vanishing as he recognised corks, wax strips, stamps, embossing tools, and a wide variety of pens and inks—invaluable tools for a forger.

He turned back to the rows and rows of bottles, all carefully stored on their sides, and wondered what he should do.

He was still wondering when there was the sound of someone clearing their throat from behind him. “I can explain.”

Aziraphale spun, an embarrassed flush rising to his cheeks as he saw Crowley standing at the foot of the stairs. He was looking considerably more sober now, his sunglasses impassive walls of plastic and expression unreadable. Strangely, he seemed to have combed his hair.

For a moment they just looked at each other, and then Aziraphale straightened up, reminding himself that he’d done nothing wrong.

“Where’s the Lafite?” he asked boldly. “The ’44 from Tours. Which one is it?”

For a moment Crowley didn’t move, and then he slowly walked to the row of shelving on his left and, without even having to check, pulled a bottle free. He held it out to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale strode slowly forward and took the bottle from him. As soon as its weight had been safely transferred, Crowley took several quick steps back, as though wanting to get out of range.

Aziraphale frowned at Crowley for a moment and then looked down at the Lafite. He ran his thumb over the label, feeling the softness of the cotton paper. This was the original; he was absolutely certain.

“It’s not what you think,” Crowley said after a moment, and there was a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Aziraphale switched his gaze to Crowley, still struggling to get a read on him. “So you’re not forging copies of bottles you already own, and selling the copies in their place?”

Crowley didn’t reply.

“How many?” Aziraphale asked, looking back at the Lafite in his hands. “How many forgeries have you sold?”

Crowley hesitated for a moment before responding. “About—only about a dozen important bottles. And several crates of some middle-of-the-road Burgundies, but that’s it. It’s not a lot. I’m not trying to hurt anyone.”

Aziraphale drew a deep breath. “Then why? Why are you doing this? It’s clearly not for the money, given that you’re barely turning a profit. Is it just the thrill of showing how clever you are? Hoodwinking all the experts, is that it?”

“No,” Crowley said immediately, and Aziraphale was surprised to hear the honesty in his voice. “No, I…I just…” He took a moment, head tilted slightly upwards, as though marshalling his thoughts. “They’re bottles of _wine_. People—I think a lot of people forget that. Do you remember Monsieur Paget? He’s the one who gave me the idea. Wine was just an investment for him. That’s all it was. It was just bottled money.”

Crowley took a deep breath before continuing. “And then on the other hand there are the people who treat it _too much_ like wine. Like—who was that American?—Fowler. God, that party haunted me for days. I heard horror stories about it afterwards. Just—no appreciation whatsoever. It’s just alcohol to them. And, again, _money_. The thrill of being so cavalier with something so expensive—it’s like crashing a yacht just because you’re too stupid to bother reading the instructions. It’s wanton destruction of property, just to show that the expense doesn’t matter to you.”

Crowley paused again, and this time he rubbed anxiously at the back of one of his hands. Aziraphale watched the movement in surprise, and knew that Crowley must really mean what he said. “These bottles—they’re history. They were meant to be admired and cherished. And drunk, yes, but at an appropriate time and with respect. I was surprised by how few people realised that.”

He looked at the ground. “And, increasingly—just look at the buyers these days. All the young people just want to get plastered and all the old people just want to invest. There are so few in the middle. Did you hear about the bloke from Florida who only drinks iced tea? What does he need two bottles of 1806 Lafite for? He’s not going to appreciate them.

“Wine wasn’t meant to be…be put on a dusty old shelf and used as collateral,” Crowley continued, “and it wasn’t meant to be wasted by idiots just looking to get drunk. I just…I’m trying to look after the best of the bottles, that’s all.”

Crowley fell silent, and Aziraphale just stared at him for a long moment. He knew that he ought to rail against Crowley, ought to argue the right of a buyer to know what they were getting, ought to uphold the law he claimed to support so strongly, but…

Aziraphale was a rare book dealer, and in his long career he had encountered many exceptionally rare books. Some, like those belonging to Monsieur Paget, had spent a great deal of their lives untouched and unloved, existing only to fulfil the promise on their price tag. Others had been destroyed by too much attention, often by well-meaning amateur collectors attempting to repair existing damage, or by storage in inadequate conditions. Aziraphale had once seen a first edition of Tycho Brahe’s _De Nova Stella_ that would have been in impeccable condition had the previous owner not carelessly stored it on a south-facing bookcase for two decades. The spine had been entirely faded by the sun.

Books, in Aziraphale’s opinion, were meant to be read. That was what they were _for_ , and there were precious few customers who came through his shop these days for whom that was a priority. Increasingly, it was becoming all about the money or the prestige. People just wanted a shelf of expensive books so they could wave at them when entertaining visitors and talk about how cultured they were.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale was in the business of buying and selling books, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a collection of his own. Those books that came across his desk that were extraordinarily rare, unusual, interesting, or otherwise exceptional made their way to the back room of Aziraphale’s Soho bookshop, which was strictly off limits to potential buyers. The room had carefully controlled temperature, humidity, and lighting, and Aziraphale kept diligent care of his books, ensuring that they were being treated as well as they would be at the British Library.

But, more than anything, he _read_ his books. Very carefully, of course, because some of them were very delicate, but cover to cover nonetheless. Because to do otherwise would be a disservice, not only to the books themselves but to the people who had written and published them. Aziraphale owned a fourteenth-century illuminated psalter he made sure to page through every couple of years, and every time he did so he admired the beautiful strokes of the illuminator’s brush, the steady hand of the scribe, and the fluidity of the verses. There was so much love poured into books, so much time and dedication and _soul_ , and to put that aside was to spurn the work of generations.

Aziraphale loved his books, loved them far more than he had any right to, and he could hear that same love in Crowley’s voice now—that same dedication to the work of generations past, of the vineyard workers and fermenters and bottlers that had made wine meant to be _drunk_ —and he was moved.

“Look, I’m…I’m really not making very much money off of this,” Crowley said hesitantly. “I’ve been using the profits from selling each forgery to buy the next bottle—but I have a little set aside, and if you would keep this between us, I’m sure we could work something out…” He trailed off awkwardly, his faltering attempt at bribery falling into the air and hanging there as the silence stretched longer.

“You used the wrong type of paper,” Aziraphale said at last.

A moment passed. “Sorry?”

“You used wood-pulp paper for the label,” Aziraphale said. “It’s a bit too rough, and the tooth is all wrong. It also didn’t come into common usage until the 1850s and ’60s. An 1844 bottle would have had a label made from cotton paper. You used the wrong type.”

“…oh.”

There was another silence.

“So…you _do_ drink them, then?” Aziraphale asked. “The real bottles?”

Crowley nodded. “On special occasions. Only when…er…only on really beautiful nights. In beautiful places. I try to make it really worth it. And only when the bottle’s fully aged, of course.”

Aziraphale nodded, turning his gaze back to the 1844 Château Lafite-Rothschild in his hands.

“With beautiful people?” he suggested.

“Er,” Crowley said, sounding caught off guard. “Not—er—not usually, no. Everyone I know who would appreciate a fine vintage would catch on to what I’ve been doing, and I don’t particularly want to waste them on someone who won’t appreciate them.”

Aziraphale nodded and walked slowly over to where Crowley had pulled the Lafite from the shelving. He carefully slid it back into its spot, the motion slow and deliberate. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Crowley watching him warily.

Aziraphale finished sliding the bottle into place and kept his hand on its neck, his gaze still on the wooden shelving. “Can you even see down here?”

He heard Crowley shift on his feet a little. “What?”

“With the sunglasses,” Aziraphale said. “Your lighting down here isn’t very bright.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Ah, not very well, no.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence and then Crowley said, “I have a condition.”

“Light sensitivity?” Aziraphale guessed.

“No…” Crowley trailed off. “It’s more of an aesthetics thing, but it…unnerves people.”

“Would you show me?”

Aziraphale could hear Crowley shifting uncomfortably on his feet, and he wondered if he’d been too bold, but he wanted to be able to look Crowley in the eye during what he was about to do next.

Off to the side, he heard the clicking of Crowley’s sunglasses as he folded them.

“I will keep your secret,” Aziraphale said slowly, turning away from the rows of bottles, “for a price.”

Crowley was standing not far from the foot of the stairs, his sunglasses in his hands, looking awfully worried. “I don’t have much money,” Crowley said again, “but I’ll do what I can. About the only things I have are this house and my car.”

“It’s not that kind of price,” Aziraphale said, taking a few steps closer. He was unable to prevent his gaze from immediately going to Crowley’s eyes, curious to see what sort of genetic mishap had caused Crowley to habitually don tinted glasses for what must have been most of his life.

He couldn’t tell much from this distance except that Crowley’s eyes were a rather unusual yellowish colour, his irises reflecting the faint light of the bulbs tacked to the ceiling. Aziraphale took another step closer.

“When you open the real bottles,” Aziraphale said, moving closer still, the two of them only a metre apart now, “share them with me.”

For a moment Crowley just blinked at him, and Aziraphale finally got a good look at his eyes. He understood how Crowley had settled upon the word ‘unnerving’ to describe them; had they been emotionless, they would have been quite frightening, his golden irises split by vertical pupils like a snake’s. But they _weren’t_ emotionless. On the contrary, they seemed filled with emotion, currently a mix of anxiety and surprise.

“R—really?” Crowley asked, sounding very taken aback.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, coming to a stop and continuing to study Crowley’s eyes, intrigued by the richness of their colour.

“You weren’t just—I thought—” Crowley began haltingly. “You weren’t just trying to—er—get on my good side, earlier, when you said—er—”

It took Aziraphale a moment to realise what he meant.

“We’re friends,” Aziraphale said, wasting no time mincing words. “And if you’re going to truly appreciate these beautiful wines, you need to do it with someone. As much as wine is for wonderful times and appreciative palettes, it’s also for sharing with an equally appreciative partner, don’t you agree?”

For a moment Crowley’s strange, serpentine eyes searched his own, and then some of the anxiety in them faded, replaced by a delicate, fragile hope and a sudden infusion of warmth that seemed to soften every part of him. And there, with the faint light picking out every line of his slitted, golden eyes, they were suddenly quite beautiful, and Aziraphale didn’t understand how anyone could think otherwise.

Aziraphale held out his hand. “So, what do you say? Is it an arrangement?”

Crowley looked down at Aziraphale’s offered hand and then back up at his face, a small smile creeping across his features. And, as he tentatively shook Aziraphale’s hand, Aziraphale knew that it had been right of him to ask Crowley to remove his sunglasses after all, because when he smiled his beautiful, golden eyes positively _sparkled_.

“It is.”


End file.
